


The Great Escape

by Written



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Love at First Sight, Sexual Content, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-04-29 15:39:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5132999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Written/pseuds/Written
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is, more or less, the story of an apostate, his bride, and their great escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction.

 

 

The parchment was massive—a tapestry of gilded words—and Malcolm stared at his name in the elaborate loops and curves of the Orlesian script..

“Impressive, isn’t it?” said Consuelon and watched the four shadowed, youthful faces: Malcolm, lost in some dream; Orsino, painfully earnest; Rosamund, open-mouthed and teary-eyed; Boniface, restrained with faux stoicism.

It was more than _impressive_ , thought Malcolm, it was… it was women in jeweled masks and hooped gowns, beautiful and light-footed as butterflies; it was a goblet of wine that cost more than anything he’d ever owned; it was a pine-scented breeze and a horse beneath him and slender arms wrapped about his waist... yes, and the horse was a stallion, dark as obsidian, a splotch of white between the eyes... every horse he'd ever seen was made of ink, and indeed the stallion in his fantasy bore a striking similarity to the one pictured in his _Compendium of Beasts and Their Magical Properties_ he’d read to tatters.

He could almost feel her _(whose?)_ arms about his waist.

“Malcolm?” Orsino nudged him. “Wandering the Fade?”

Everyone laughed, teasing and good-natured, and Malcolm flashed his winsome smile. There was careless beauty about him, in the cloud of dark curls about his face, in the gold-flecked eyes dark almost to blackness in candlelight. Rosamund caught his eye and flushed red as her name. As always, Malcolm pretended not to notice.

“As I was saying,” the Senior Enchanter continued with easy patience, “the details are still unclear, but all the necessary permissions have been granted. Unsurprisingly, nearly the entirety of the Order has volunteered for escort duty, but I expect the selections will be made—”

Malcolm’s fantasy of drinking too much spiced wine and pretending he was an Orlesian nobleman died under the watchful eyes of some templar clunking around behind him.

“You are not just an evening’s entertainment,” said Consuelon and the severity in his voice brought Malcolm back to the cold, dimly lit room. “You are representatives of the Circle of Kirkwall, and in that you are representative of two things much greater than yourselves: mages, _all_ mages, and Kirkwall itself.” There was a heavy silence, accentuated by the crackling fire. “I want you to enjoy yourselves,” he continued, his voice softening, “but I want you to remember.”

 _Remember._ Malcolm looked toward the open door and the templar posted outside it, no doubt listening to every word… yes, there was more to remember than piety and patriotism. 

“Will we meet the Grand Duchess?” asked Boniface, breaking the silence.

“I’m sure,” said Consuelon.

“Even me?” asked Orsino. 

Everyone looked at his ears.

“Offer to show her how elves butter their bread,” said Malcolm. There was a long, horrible moment of quiet, then Orsino laughed, and then they were _all_ laughing, the tension that had fallen over them dispelled as easily as a hand through a cloud of smoke.

 

_(for the rest of his life_

_it was that memory of Malcolm_

_careless, quick-witted_

_that gave knife ear no power over him)_

 

“Maker help the Orlesians if Malcolm ever plays the Game,” Consuelon said.

 

* * *

 

 _If you squint_ , thought Leandra,  _he doesn’t look so effeminate_.

She stood before her betrothed’s portrait, hands clasped behind her back, and observed him with a solemn squint.  _Guillaume de Launcet_. He’d the smooth, round face of a boy given to an over fondness for treacle tarts, and a carefully trimmed and styled mustache curled above his lips. He was not displeasing to the eye—his reddish blond hair was his best feature—but she was acutely aware that she could not spend her life  _squinting_  at her husband.

“Well?” her mother prompted.

“He looks… kind,” said Leandra, searching for a genuine compliment. And the boy in the portrait  _did_  have kindness in his eyes.

“He looks like a girl with a mustache,” Gamlen said and laughed. 

Leandra tried not to smile (and failed), but their mother rounded on Gamlen too quickly to catch it: “If your only purpose is to make disparaging remarks about your sister’s betrothed...!” Bethann said between clenched teeth, fixing her son with a look that would freeze saltwater. 

_(She thinks he does, too. She doesn't want Gamlen to make me see it.)_

“Her future wife, you mean,” Gamlen said and sulked under his mother’s glare.

“I _do_ think the mustache does not flatter him,” Leandra intervened. 

Gamlen opened his mouth, ready with some fresh insult, and she caught his eye. His throat worked, straining at his self-control, and she widened her eyes ever so slightly in a wordless plea. He looked away with a frown and held his tongue.

“He might be cleanshaven at the ball,” Bethann said and turned back to the portrait. “The emperor has kept himself cleanshaven three months now and I’ve heard there’s a following for the style.”

“Perhaps,” said Leandra. Then, trying to please: “I’ll be happy to see him again, mustache or no.”

Bethann smiled and reached out to stroke her daughter’s cheek. “Of course you will. Now, the steward needs me, but I’ll be back to talk about the ball. I want you to pick something from that book of patterns for us to discuss. Orlesian, of course.”

“Yes, Mama,” said Leandra with practiced obedience, and Bethann kissed her forehead. The Lady Amell said nothing to her son—did not even look at him—as she swept out of the room. The two of them were quiet, as still as statues, until the sound of her slippers whispering on the marble floor was gone.

“Thanks,” said Gamlen. “Pretty sure she was about to start the whole ‘honor of an Orlesian marriage’ speech again.”

“Do you  _really_  think he looks like a girl?”

There was a quiet sadness in her voice, a soft desperation, that made him pause and reconsider the portrait.

“I… well, no, he doesn’t look like a girl, not really, he’s just so…”

“Orlesian,” Leandra finished. 

They stared at each other in silence, both thinking of that mustache and certain the other was too… and then burst into laughter.

“Thank the Maker you’re the one marrying him!”

“He has a sister,” Leandra said innocently.

“No.”

“But  _Gamlen_ ,” she went on in exaggerated tones, “think of the  _honor_  of an  _Orlesian marriage_.”

Her brother groaned. “You know, you really do sound just like her when you’re doing that.”

“Why, the _last_ time a scion of the  _House of Amell_  married into the  _Orlesian nobility_ —” Leandra plowed on, mimicking their mother to perfection, and Gamlen threw a velvet cushion at her head. She shrieked and dove behind the chaise longue (one of several gifts sent in her betrothed’s name with his most recent portrait,) flailing around the back of the chair for something to fire back at him.

 

* * *

 

“Did you see Rose?” Orsino said later in the semi-privacy of their shared quarters. “I thought she was going to faint when Consuelon told her she could wear a gown instead of robes. You’d think the ball was in her honor the way she’s been going on about it.” He was hunched over a parchment at his writing desk with a thoughtful frown. "And it's for some duchess, right? Flora...?"

Malcolm stared at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head, and traced the familiar cracks with his eyes, half-sure someone before him had tried to etch Bellitanus in the stone. The room was not truly large enough for two to share, but close quarters was a fact of life in the Gallows. “Grand Duchess Florianne,” he said, letting each word dance on his tongue. “The emperor’s niece.”

Orsino sighed. “I don’t even speak Orlesian.”

“It’s mostly Kirkwallers, I bet,” Malcolm said. “Just memorize a few things—it’s a pleasure to meet you, you honor me with your presence, where is the cheese—important things.”

“Where is the cheese,” Orsino repeated with a snort.

“Où est le fromage.”

Orsino looked over at him, taken aback by what appeared to be effortless Orlesian (it was a proper sentence, as it were, though the accent was terrible.) “You’re a genius,” he said flatly.

Malcolm met his eyes with a grin and a raised eyebrow. “Because I know how to locate Orlesian cheese? Wait until you see me tell a templar to fuck off in Rivaini.”

Orsino laughed even as he cast a nervous glance to the door and the templar he knew would be walking the corridor. “No. Well, yes, that’s part of it, but you know what I mean.”

“I’m sure I don’t,” Malcolm lied easily.

“Consuelon had to pick four mages,” Orsino persisted. He set his quill down and turned. “Four, out of everybody here, and you’re one of them.”

Malcolm shrugged. “So are you.”

“Yes, but… you know he picked the best.”

“Please," Malcolm said and grinned. “It's rude to boast about one's self.”

Orsino sighed and rose from his seat, wondering why he’d tried to have a serious conversation with  _Malcolm_  of all people. “I’m going to the library; I’ve got an idea of what I want to do for my performance, but I still need to work out the details.”

_Performance._

“Something wrong?” Orsino paused at the door, curious at what he’d seen on his friend’s face.

“Hm?" Malcolm feigned distraction. "Thinking.”

“Right then. I’ll be back in a few hours, I guess.”

The door clicked shut and Malcolm let out his breath in a gusty sigh.  _Performance._ He imagined himself walking into the ball with a leash about his neck, led by some templar  _(Ser Veryn, always Ser Trick-the-Tranquil Veryn)_  with a buck-toothed gape. He imagined the faces of the wealthy and the noble as he  _performed_  for them—they would  _ooh_  and  _aah_  at the simplest of fire conjurings like it were anything more than a first year apprentice’s trick—see him as no more than a domesticated beast, carefully supervised and sent back to its cage when—

“Stop,” he told himself quietly. There were enough unpleasant truths about life without poisoning his daydreams with them. He would keep his daydreams for sweeter things… like slender arms about his waist and a breeze that didn’t smell of the Waking Sea.

 

* * *

 

"I am so happy to see you again... of course, let us dance... would you accompany me to the gardens..." Leandra whispered Orlesian pleasantries into the darkness of her bedroom. There was an aching stillness to the night and she turned, clutching a pillow to her chest, to look at Guillaume de Launcet's portrait on the wall above her writing desk. He stared through her.

_"I learned to love your father," Bethann whispered, sensing the restlessness in her daughter's heart. "For a wise woman, love comes after marriage."_

Leandra tried to remember the short, fair-haired Orlesian boy, but it had been two years since last she'd seen him and the portrait suggested he was much changed; the Guillaume she remembered had been little more than a scarecrow with a touch of fuzz beneath his nose.  _He's only fifteen._ Somehow, she had been expecting... she sighed and turned again, staring up at the canopy in wordless frustration. She had been twelve when first they'd met, and even then she'd felt a sense of disappointment—the storybook prince she'd imagined was just a ten-year-old boy with ruddy cheeks, an indecipherable accent, and an aversion to anything that might soil his exquisitely-tailored clothes.

She sat up, grabbed her pillow, and threw it at the portrait. It didn't even make it over the chaise longue.

It could be worse; Phyllis Lafaille's parents were talking of betrothing her to a nobleman who was twice her age. "You're lucky," Phyllis confided to her with a glower. "At least he's not old enough to be your father. And you'll get to be the Comtesse de Launcet one day! And he's really not so bad to look at." Leandra squinted at the portrait. In the darkness, when you could barely see the details of his face in the first place, it was easy to turn him into the dark, dashing prince of her girlhood dreams—or Gaspard de Chalons perhaps, the sighing daydream of every girl from Val Royeaux to Minrathous (or so you'd think, the way Phyllis went on about him.)

There was a sound at her chamber door.

Leandra stared at the door, wondering if it was just her imagination. The moon was high and the house had been silent for hours. The door began to open and she jerked the curtains close about her bed, suddenly remembering every story she'd ever heard about Lowtown brigands stealing into houses—a candle was thrust through the crack, then Gamlen's face appeared above it.

"Leandra?" he whispered. "Are you—"

"You nearly scared me to death!" Leandra whispered back and parted the curtains. "I thought you were—what are you doing?"

"Going out your window," he said and shut the door.

"What?" Leandra scrambled off the bed and followed him to the open doors of her balcony. It was high summer and the roses were in full bloom. Gamlen said nothing, only peered over the edge of her balcony as if trying to solve a puzzle.

"Gamlen," she insisted. " _What_ are you doing?"

He hoisted himself onto the ledge and grabbed at the vine-wrapped trellis: "Sneaking out."

"If Father and Mother find out—"

"They'll be more disappointed in me than usual. What, are you going to tell?"

Leandra bristled, offended. "I've never told!"

"You're the best of sisters," he said and kissed her cheek.

"Where are you going?" she asked and looked over her shoulder, expecting their parents to come rushing in at any moment. 

"To see the blooming roses," he replied, halfway down the trellis

"Gamlen!" she hissed.

He grunted as he jumped from the trellis to the garden. She started to call after him again, but he was gone.

 _I may not be a disappointment_ , Leandra thought, _but I'm certainly not having as much fun as you_.


	2. Chapter 2

Maud was a stout little creature, barely past her fifth birthday, with large grey-green eyes swollen by tears.

“See this bucket?” Malcolm asked and pushed it toward her. “Do you see what’s in it?”

“Water,” she hiccuped.

“Magic water,” Malcolm said, dropping his voice to a conspirator’s whisper.

“What’s a magic water?”

“Pour it on my head and you’ll find out,” he said and bowed his head.

Maud stared at the top of his head, then looked at the bucket. It was an ordinary wooden bucket with a worn handle, much like the one she’d watched her Nan carry back and forth from the well to the cottage. Carefully, she lifted the bucket, turned it over his head, and... nothing happened! She waited in confused silence, then shook the bucket, and when that failed set it back on the floor to investigate.

“It won’t come out,” she said at last in wonder. “Is it broked water?”

“Magic water,” Malcolm reminded he, and a smile lit up her wet, blotchy face.

The shuffle of familiar footsteps caught his ear and he looked over her head to see Orsino walking through the arched entrance to the corridor. “Want to play a trick?” he asked her and her eyes grew wide. “You’re a mage and that means you’re very special. It means you can do things—wonderful things—that a lot of people can’t do. And you can even—”

“The man said mages are bad,” Maud whimpered and looked at her feet.

 _Little more than a baby and already ashamed of something she'll never be able to change._  It was hard to keep the smile on his face. Gently, he tilted her chin up to him, all the more gently because he felt the coil of something hot and dark in his gut: “The man was wrong. You are a very good girl, Maud. And you’re going to be a very good mage.”

Maud smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.

“And this is my friend Orsino,” he said as the elf drew close. “He’s a mage too.”

Maud stared up at him. “You have knife ears!”

“First time I’ve ever heard that sound like a compliment,” Orsino said dryly.

There was a swell of noise and movement at the back of the room and Malcolm saw the children gathering around their mentors. He patted the top of Maud’s head. “Scoot along. I’ll talk to you later, okay? And, uh… don’t say that someone has knife ears. It could make them sad. And you don’t want to make anyone sad, right?” Maud shook her head vigorously, blonde braids whipping back and forth, then ran to the other children.

“Did she come in with Ser Veryn this morning?” Orsino asked. Gossip spread like wildfire within the Gallows, and it only took an hour for anyone who wasn't sleeping with a pillow over their head to hear the templars had brought new faces.

“Ser Veryn,” Malcolm ground out. “Of course. I should have known. Ser _fucking_ Veryn. She said ‘the man’ told her mages were bad.” His hands were clenched, the knuckles white.

Orsino fidgeted and wished he wouldn’t— “Speaking of Ser Veryn,” he blurted out, “I came to tell you they’ve posted the escort to the ball.”

“What? Who?” Malcolm forgot his anger for a moment.

“Knight-Commander Guylian—”

“Of course.”

“—and Sers Meredith, Erwan, Maurevar… Veryn,” he finished hesitantly.

Malcolm groaned. Meredith was a stick-in-the-mud who'd write the book on rules and regulations if it wasn't already done (a future Knight-Commander if ever there was one) and Erwan was the third son of some highborn Kirkwall magistrate with a superiority complex (the exact type of man the Order loved to enlist, in his opinion.)

Veryn was just a stupid fucking bastard.

“Who’s Maurevar? I don’t know that name.”

“Umm, Maurevar Carver. He’s not been here long. Transferred from the Circle in Ferelden. He’s been with the apprentices.”

 _Ferelden_. A memory, fifteen years gone, stirred.

“I’m guessing with four there’ll be one assigned to each of us,” Orsino went on.

“And the Knight-Commander will just wander about and be admired,” Malcolm said and pushed down the memory. “We should give them a reason to wear all that armor, eh? I’ve always wanted to shout, ‘Abomination!’ in a crowded ballroom.”

"How lightly you speak of the dangers of magic," came Ser Meredith's voice from behind them.

 

* * *

 

_“...ohhhh, I knooow she is theeere, daaaaaaisieeeees in’er haaaaaair…”_

Leandra stirred and opened her eyes to the warm darkness of her bedroom. There were scattered flickers of golden light and she blinked, caught between Kirkwall and a dream, before realizing the lights were fireflies… _oh, fireflies_ … she had left her balcony doors open and they must have wandered in from the garden.

_“...waaaiiitiiiiing by theee chaaaantry to maaaaarry meeeee…”_

Gamlen could never carry a tune. He'd been scolded once by a Sister at Sunday service, convinced he was singing out of key on purpose. Leandra frowned and pressed her face into the cool, silken sheet beneath her pillow... she was too warm for her coverlet, but the air was too cool for the thin cotton and lace of her nightgown.

_“...ruuuuuuuby on theee greeeeeeen…”_

Leandra bolted upright. There was light in the sky and the candle at her bedside had burned to the wick. Somewhere, lost in the bed, was the book she’d been reading. She couldn’t remember falling asleep, but she _did_ remember having to read the same page three times, and the feeling her eyes were too heavy to—

_“...peeeeetals loooost an’ driiiiftiiiiiiiiiing…”_

It was Gamlen’s unmistakable baritone.

The coverlet had tangled about her legs in the night and she kicked at it in frustration. Bethann rarely stirred before noon, and the servants were more inclined to whisper than tattle, but Aristide rose and set with the sun. Their father had the sweet, docile face of a basset hound, but when his temper rose... she rushed to the balcony and peered over the ledge, blinking and shivering in the morning air. There, sprawled and singing in her mother's beloved elf-rooted roses, was Gamlen. 

"You're drunk," she said, more to herself than him, but he opened his bloodshot eyes and smiled up at her.

"Leandra!" he crowed. "My sweet little sister! What are _you_ doing here?"

 _I'm older than you_ , she thought, but did not bother with the fact. There were other, more important facts to contend with, one of which was their father's rage if he stepped into the garden with his morning tea and saw Gamlen drunk and sprawled out in the roses. "Gamlen," she pleaded in as loud a whisper as she dared. "Please,  _please_ , be quiet!"

He muttered something in response and closed his eyes. 

Leandra looked about the garden, then her bedroom, in desperation. Their father's study lay between the staircase and Gamlen's bedroom and he always worked with the door open. Her eyes fell upon the ivy-covered trellis. She thought, absurdly, of a storybook prince climbing the weathered walls of a tower to his beloved, then imagined herself— _somehow, someway_ —hauling Gamlen up the trellis and down the corridor to his bedroom. She looked back down at him. His head was thrown back, mouth agape; he'd have made a marvelous birdbath.

"Gamlen?" she whispered. Then, louder: "Gamlen!"

He opened his eyes. "I am not so very drunk."

" _Hush_ and _listen_. I'm going to get Papa to come into my room and then _you're_ going to sneak inside and get to bed. D'you hear me?" 

"Yeah."

"Tell me what you're going to do."

"Come up. Bed."

" _Quietly_."

He groaned and started to pull himself upright. Leandra watched him a moment more, then snatched her robe and tied it loosely about her waist. The corridor was quiet, but she could hear the faint laughter and conversation of the servants preparing her father's breakfast. The door to his study was open and she took a deep, steadying breath before she stepped inside. The room was large, but so cluttered with books and knick-knacks that it seemed much smaller than it was. There was a faint scent of tobacco and, stronger, the incense her mother insisted he burn to cover the smell. He was absorbed in a thick, leather-bound book, his reading spectacles perched on the end of his aquiline nose, and she coughed to get his attention—an honest cough, truth be told, through the fog of the incense. _  
_

"Ah! Leandra!" Aristide smiled widely and put the book down. "You're up early, dear."

"I left the door to my balcony open," she blurted out. "And it was open all night and a—"  _not a spider, he's terrified of spiders, he's always having me come in here and catch the spiders_ "—a firefly came in. And I'm... afraid," she finished lamely.

"A firefly?" He blinked at her, mystified. "Why, Leandra, you've never been—alright, alright," he said and rose from his desk. He was a short, thin man, easily a head below his wife and children, with a hairline that had been steadily marching backward for thirty years.

"Oh, do let's hurry, I'm so scared," she said, doing her best imitation of poor Genevieve Threnhold, who was frightened of everything from caterpillars to deathroot. Aristide followed her down the corridor to her bedroom and she threw a desperate glance towards the staircase  _(hurry, hurry, hurry)_ as she shut the door behind them.

"There's nothing to fear from fireflies, Leandra," he said. "They're not like spiders, you know, they don't _bite_. Now, where is—"

He was speaking, but the words could have been Qunlat for all she heard them. Her horrified eyes were fixed on the balcony and the sight of Gamlen caught between the ledge and the trellis, his doublet pulled up to his shoulders from where it snared on the white-washed lattice. His chest was covered in ruby kisses. He met her eyes, smiled, and vomited.

 

* * *

 

"This is ridiculous," Malcolm hissed.

"Yes, it is," the Senior Enchanter agreed.

"Then why—"

"Because it is what I negotiated down from your not being allowed to attend whatsoever. Now  _sit down_  and try to  _stay_ down?" Consuelon sighed and closed his eyes. He'd been past his youth when Malcolm first came through the gates of the Gallows, but he'd never seemed old... until now. Malcolm sank down into his chair and shivered; even in high summer the rooms  _(cells)_  of the Gallows were cold, and it seemed there was no place colder than the Senior Enchanter's rooms.  _(They do it on purpose.)_

"It's not only you," said Consuelon. "Orsino's belongings have also been searched. I was assured all would be put back to rights, just as—"

"Why? Maker's breath!  _I_  was the one making jokes about abominations!"

"Ser Meredith noted in her report that Orsino commented on there being four templars and one assigned to each of you. The fact of the assignations had not been made known to the Circle and so she—"

"Anyone with half the brains the Maker gave a  _nug_  could guess four templars equals a personal guard to each—" Malcolm rose from his chair and the force of his movement made it screech backwards on the stone floor.

"Malcolm!" Consuelon held his hands up, palms open.

There was a sound in the corridor, the clanking shuffle of a templar's armor, and the noise made something fierce and hot tighten bands of iron about Malcolm's chest. "So because I've made a joke I'm not allowed to make a single move at the ball without a templar in lock step, is that right?"

"You will be escorted by Ser Maurevar," Consuelon answered. "Ser Meredith will escort Orsino."

"And the others? Boniface? Rose?"

"Ser Meredith wished to investigate—"

"On what grounds?" Malcolm demanded.

"Are you going to let me speak, Malcolm, or should I write it down and let you interrupt ink and parchment?" Consuelon snapped.

"I..." Malcolm sat down, remembering himself—of all the people who might deserve his ire, the Senior Enchanter who salvaged him from this wreck was not one. "I apologize."

"I made the argument to the Knight-Commander that Ser Meredith was seeing conspiracies in the inappropriate banter of youth... an argument that he found most sensible. Boniface and Rose will not be subject to investigation. And that is the whole of it. You will still attend the ball. You will be under escort of Ser Maurevar."

"At least it's not Ser Veryn," Malcolm spat.

"I would not trust Ser Veryn to escort his piss to the privy," Consuelon said wearily. Malcolm started. "Yes, Malcolm, I'm capable of making a joke. And I really wouldn't trust him... I passed him in the corridor and he'd a reek of piss about him. The man must dribble in his armor."

 

* * *

 

Leandra opened the bureau at her bedside and looked at Guillaume's letters. They were arranged in neat, ribbon-tied stacks, so heavily perfumed the scent clung to the bureau, a letter sent every month since their betrothal on her eleventh birthday. She wondered what he did with the letters she'd always dutifully sent in return. Once, she looked to his words with the breathless excitement of a young girl in love with love; now, the letter she slipped in amongst the others was met with an ambivalent smile. She closed the drawer and looked at his portrait as if she might speak to him through the painted canvas.

"It really won't be a pleasure to see you," she said, contrary to her own letter. "I expect you to be handsome as your portrait, which is not at all."

"Ooooh, I knew there was some rebellion under all that 'Yes, Mama'!"

Leandra spun, her heart in her throat, but it was only Mara; her chambermaid laughed and crossed the room, arms folded beneath her ample bosom: "Sometimes I wish I'd Lord such-and-so for a father, then I think about marrying some Orlesian fop and I'm glad I'm common."

"Is Gamlen alright?" blurted Leandra, partly from concern and partly to deflect.

"Oh, he'll be fine," Mara replied. "Though milord shouting in his ear didn't look to help the hangover." 

Leandra sighed. Mara plopped down beside her on the bed. "But what's this about 'not at all handsome'?"

"Noth—"

"Something," Mara cut her off. 

Leandra set her mouth in a stubborn line, but Mara stared her down with equally determined patience.

"He's coming to the ball," she said at last.

"You sure?"

"He wrote me and said as much," she replied and reached for the drawer of letters on her bureau. His latest was alone, the beginning of a new pile. She laid it on her lap and smoothed out the creases in the parchment. His penmanship was neat but tiny and she squinted to make out the words.  _Squinting, squinting, I will have a lifetime of squinting with Guillaume de Launcet_. "Ma chérie," she read. "Je espère que cette lettre—"

"I don't speak Orlesian," Mara reminded her.

"Oh. Umm. He says the Viscount informed the Grand Duchess that Papa was a guest of honor, so she invited the de Launcets since I'm betrothed to Guillaume and—" Mara stared at her with an uncomprehending expression. "Ah, suffice to say... he's going to be here. And I know I should be happy, but..."

"But you don't want to spend the whole party on Go—Ger—"

"Guillaume."

“Ugh.  _Orlesians_. You don't want to spend the whole party on what's-his-name's arm and pretend to be madly in love with him."

"Yes." Leandra closed her eyes and propped her chin on her hands.  _Why is it so much easier when someone else says it?_

She wanted... she  _had_  wanted... to dance. To dance and dance and dance. Perhaps with some handsome templar... or Leopold Reinhardt, who preferred men but was  _such_  a wonderful dancer and made her laugh so hard she'd forget her steps in the waltzes. Such dalliances, she knew, would be done once the betrothal became a formal engagement...

"You don't have to marry him," Mara said. As if it were that simple. "I wouldn't."

Leandra felt her breath catch

 

_(she had thought that many times_

_had thought that without letting herself think it_

_formless words in the dead of night_

_when she woke from hot, restless dreams)_

 

and swallowed down the wordless rush.

"A wise woman falls in love after her wedding day," she said, and thought of her parents' wedding portrait hanging in pride of place in the dining hall—solemn, hand-clasped strangers.

Mara scoffed. "When do wise people ever have any fun?"

"My brother has  _plenty_  of fun and—"

"Yeah, well, Gamlen's an idiot. Just because you're not being wise doesn't mean you can't be  _smart_  about it."


	3. Chapter 3

 

There were no windows in the Gallows, but there had been once; if you looked closely at the walls, you'd see the arched outlines of newer stone. The blaze of candlelight threw all the way to the rafters, revealing constellations painted by some forgotten artist, but Malcolm thought them a poor replacement for the truth. He was quiet, studying the black spheres that served for stars. His melancholy had come again. Like the templars, it never kept too far a distance.

_A stone cage where the stars are black and the sun never rises._

"Thank the Maker the Circle isn't expected to provide music," Boniface murmured beside him. A makeshift orchestra was assembled in the commons and Rosamund was clapping her hands in an effort to keep them on the same beat.

"I just wish we weren't expected to dance," Orsino said. The tables and chairs were pushed back to the walls and a score of mages, mostly women, had come to see Rosamund give 'Orlesian waltzing lessons'.

"Well, you know... I doubt anyone will want to dance with you," Boniface assured him and waggled his index fingers.

"The one time in my life I'm thankful for racism."

A recognizable tune began to form in the clash of shawms and viols and string-harps and Rosamund let out a squeal of delight. “Who’s playing that viol?” Malcolm asked, suddenly interested. It was a high, lively melody, and the others began to meander towards a harmony with it. They all looked closer at the orchestra. The viol was in the back, played by a freckled, middle-aged woman with red curls cut boyishly short. She bore the sunburst brand of the tranquil on her forehead, and though her hands moved with precision over the viol, her eyes were vacant.

“Oh,” Boniface said. “I didn’t know they could… well, I mean… music is supposed to be _expressive_...”

_No, there_ is _sunshine in these walls... it's just that you'll only ever find it on someone's forehead..._

Rosamund rushed toward them, bright-eyed with excitement. She'd tried to pile her long, golden brown hair into an elegant Orlesian knot, but pieces of it had come loose and hung about her shoulders in a ragged, decidedly _inelegant_ fashion.

"Malcolm?" Orsino frowned at the dark and distant look on his friend's face. "Are you—"

"I'm fine," he said evenly, but Orsino had known him long and well enough to hear the lie.

"Who's first?" Rosamund asked. The question was, ostensibly, for all of them, but her eyes lingered on Malcolm. There was a moment of silence that seemed an age—"Well?"—then Malcolm straightened and offered his hand. She stared at him, blushing, then shyly took it. He noticed neither her shyness nor her blush; he was as far from her as the black stars on the stone sky.

_Her name was—is—Zenaida. She had so much hair, and she wore it loose down her back. I used to wake up in the night and listen for her viol. Everyone told her it wasn't safe to be a Libertarian._

 "...so well," Rosamund was saying and Malcolm realized she'd been speaking to him. "Are you sure you haven't done this before?" Her hand was warm and clammy in his and there was a high, rosy color in her cheeks. He felt a curious detachment from the dance—from his own self, as if he were a puppet moved by invisible strings. They turned, and turned again, and with each turn his gaze was drawn to Zenaida, to the shorn hair and the viol and the sunburst brand. "You're always so funny," she said and squeezed his hand.

"Thank you," he said, unsure of what else to say to her compliments and the expectant look in her eyes.  He didn't feel funny. Looking at Zenaida, and the black stars, and the walled up windows, he found that his wits and laughter had fled him; he was twenty years old, but suddenly he was old and growing older in a cage without bars. "When did they catch Zenaida?"

There was a stutter in Rosamund's dreamy smile. "What?"

"Zenaida."

"Who?"

" _Zenaida_ ," he repeated. "The tranquil playing the viol. When did they catch her?"

"Oh. Umm, I don't know. I guess she came in with Ser Veryn and the children?"

"I never heard anything about her. I only heard about the children. Do you—you _do_  remember her, don't you?"

"I remember she ran away."

The floor was crowded with dancers, laughing and swirling and tripping through the waltz, and Malcolm felt darkness growing in his mind, shadows on his shoulders; the louder the laughter, the happier the faces, the darker and heavier it all became.  _They can put a brand on your forehead. They can take away your magic, take away everything that lets you love and hate and wish and_ feel _..._

Rosamund pressed herself closer against him, close enough to feel the firmness of her breasts against his chest and smell the lavender in her disheveled hair, and he looked into her hungry, up-turned face.

"Never you mind that," she whispered. "Just kiss me."

And he kissed her.

 

* * *

 

"You're a _vision_!" Phyllis squealed and clapped her hands.

Leandra smiled at her friend, reflected behind her in the gilded floor length mirror, and plucked at the sleeves of the latest gown. Her bedroom was strewn with colorful, discarded heaps of silk and velvet and encrusted jewels.

"But it's not Orlesian," she said, turning and looking over her shoulder at the lacings. "See the sleeves? Ferelden."

"Who cares?" Mara put in, stooping to pick up the rejected gowns. "If he cares more about politics than what's under all that lace and velvet—"

"Mara!" both girls gasped, scandalized.

"Oh, you _want_ them to wonder."

"I do not!" Phyllis cried, cheeks flaming to her lie.

Leandra turned to her reflection again. _She_ knew what was beneath the snowy lace and crimson velvet: the indent of her waist and the roll of flesh that she could pinch between her fingers, the childish point of her breasts, the navel that was turned outwards. _Imperfections._

"He'll think you're beautiful," Mara said, as if she could read her mistress's thoughts. "And he'll be a perfect gentleman. He'll be  _such_ a perfect gentleman that he wouldn't _dare_  have such an impure thought."

"But what about you, Leandra?" Phyllis teased. "Do you keep your thoughts as chaste as a Sister's?"

"As chaste as a Mother's," she replied with exaggerated primness.

"As chaste as a Divine's, more like," Mara added. "A cold sponge bath would get me hotter and wetter than that face."

" _Mara!_ " Leandra protested. "Really, that's not—"

Phyllis exploded with laughter.

"—not kind at all, he's not ugly, he's just—"

"A sponge bath!" Phyllis shrieked. "Oh, Maker's mercy, I can't _breathe_ —"

Leandra sighed and looked at his portrait. Guillaume was not handsome—he inspired nothing in her but a vague, tired fondness—but she wouldn't laugh at him. And his eyes were kind... they  _were_ kind, and more than kind, perhaps they were sweet...

_I want to love you,_ she thought.  _I want to be good to you, even if I don't... even if it's not like in the tales, like the knights and their ladies. And I won't laugh at you. I bet a lot of people laugh at you. If you're good to me, and kind to me, I promise that I'll never laugh at you._

And she never broke her promise.

 

* * *

 

Malcolm closed his eyes and touched his lips. The honeyed taste of Rosamund's mouth was gone, but his lips were bruised; she was an eager lover. He tried to imagine her—the way her skin would look in the candlelight as she disrobed, how she would rub her lavender perfume into the curve of her neck—but his thoughts were as restless as they were indulgent.

"I shouldn't have kissed her," he said.

There was no response from Orsino. He'd been asleep for hours, snoring his peculiar, whistling snore.

"I _shouldn't_ have kissed her," he said again and thrust his fists into the dark tumble of his curls.

She had pressed against him, soft and warm, and drawn him into a darkened alcove away from the whirl of music and conversation, but... how was it possible to want nothing, to expect nothing, and still be disappointed? Her lips were too wet. Her touch was too bold. And he'd found himself stepping away from her, gently pushing her hands aside, wishing she would stop whispering and—

Malcolm sat up, pulled aside the coverlet, and reached for the candle at his bedside. A flame sparked on the tip of his finger and he held it to the wick. Orsino muttered in his sleep and turned away from the flickering light.

She wasn't his first mistake.

Slowly, he opened the door and slipped into the corridor. Technically, there was no curfew for Harrowed mages, but no one wandered the Gallows past midnight. It raised questions, and questions raised suspicions. But the close, dark stillness of the room made his thoughts hammer in his brains as though they would explode. The chapel would have light and space. And he'd long ago learned to give the appearance of prayer: hands clasped, head bowed, eyes closed, lips in soundless movement. He _did_ believe in the Maker... but it was hard to adore someone who'd blessed you with a curse and ordered you to spend your life in penitent confinement for the honor.

The chapel was empty, but he took the same spot he'd always taken, furthest from the altar and closest to the door. It was quiet, but the quiet was alive with the crackle of burning wood. He propped his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.

"In the fuckin' chapel!?"

Malcolm flinched and nearly choked on his own saliva. The _(regrettably)_  familiar face of Ser Veryn loomed in the arched entrance.

"Oh, you mages get bolder by the day," the templar spat and shook his head. "Bold as brass, you lot. In the fuckin' chapel!"

Malcolm smiled. He could hear the thunder of his own heart in his ears. And louder than that, the thunder of a thousand words better left unsaid. Ser Veryn had been known to use his fists and the Knight-Commander had been known to overlook it.

"Where is she?" the templar demanded. 

"Who?"

"Don't play stupid with me. The girl!"

"I would never play stupid with you, ser," Malcolm said and rose from his seat, sweeping the man a bow. "I would always lose."

Ser Veryn stared at him, his thick brows drawn together. "Good," he said at last. "Then you'll tell me where the girl is. Or is she late to your little assignation?"

"I don't know what—"

"Pardon me," a soft, deep voice said, and Ser Veryn turned. Another templar appeared in the darkness behind him. He was of middling height, with fair hair mismatched to his swarthy skin, and an odd smile. "Is there a problem?"

"You're supposed to be walking the apprentice halls," Ser Veryn barked.

"I switched with Meredith. Is there a problem?"

The templar drew near and Malcolm realized it was a scar at the corner of his mouth that gave him the illusion of a smile.

"I caught _this one_ waiting for his lady love. And in the chapel of all—"

"You think I'm here to meet _Rosamund_?" Malcolm stared at Ser Veryn, incredulous.

"That's the name! I saw them cuddled up like kittens at—"

"I'll handle things from here," the scarred templar said evenly and looked at Malcolm.

"What do you mean you'll—no, _I'm_ the one that—"

"I'm the one that's been assigned this hall. So _I'll_ handle things from here."

There was a tense moment of quiet and Malcolm realized there was something more than a squabble over jurisdiction between the two men.

"Maker's breath, but everyone knows you're soft on them! I could go to the Knight-Commander over this, Carver!"

_Carver? Maurevar Carver?_

"I don't doubt you could go do a lot of things. So why don't you go do them and let me handle this, hmm?" 

Ser Veryn glared, his hands balled into fists, then turned on his heel with a wordless snarl and left. They were quiet, listening to the clink of his armor until it faded into the crackle of the chapel fires.

"Thank you," Malcolm spoke first. The words felt strange on his tongue. Had he ever genuinely thanked a templar?

The man cracked a smile, and the scar made it a comically lop-sided smirk: "So. _Did_ you come here to meet—"

"No," Malcolm said at once.

"Is that so," the templar said and regarded him thoughtfully. "You put up with his shit and I can't even let you run off and get laid as a consolation."

 

* * *

 

Leandra pulled her silver comb through the long, dark mane of her hair and wondered at her reflection. For all the hours she'd spent before her reflection, trying on this gown and that, she had yet to decide on what she thought of her own appearance—free of lace and velvet, rouge and powder. Her eyes went to Guillaume's portrait and the eyes that seemed to follow her wherever she went. She knew he could not see her, and yet she felt immodestly bare before him in her nightgown and loose hair.

"Darling?" The door opened a crack and her mother's voice called through.

"Yes, Mo—" her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. "Yes, Mother, come in."

Bethann stepped through the door and closed it behind her. Not for the first time, Leandra was struck by her mother's beauty. She was tall and slender as Andraste's statues, golden-haired and emerald-eyed; indeed, for as long as she could remember, it was her mother's face she imagined in prayer to the Bride.

"You look lovely, my dear," Bethann said and took the silver comb. Slowly, she ran it through her daughter's hair, smiling at their reflection. "Are you excited for the ball?"

"Yes, Mama," she said and forced herself to smile.

Bethann caught a lock of her daughter's hair and twisted it round her finger, then let it fall. "You and your brother. You're Amells entirely. Dark horses. I've been talking to the de Launcets," she said, and Leandra felt a sudden chill. "They've decided to formalize the betrothal once they arrive in the city. At the ball perhaps, or afterward, depending on the Grand Duchess' opinion."

"Formalize," Leandra repeated, as if she did not understand the word.

Bethann squeezed her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. "You'll be formally engaged. And, Maker willing, wedded within a half-year. You'll be Leandra de Launcet. And when your father-in-law passes on, the Comtesse de Launcet. Your children will be in the line of succession to the Orlesian crown. Distantly, of course, but everyone who is anyone will know it."

Leandra took a breath. Her hands felt like ice. "Gamlen?"

Her mother sighed. "Thank the Maker your brother has the title and fortune to soften the blow of his _behavior_. He will be the Lord Amell one day, of course. And perhaps your marriage will be enough to see him to the hand of Genevieve Threnhold."

"The Viscount's daughter?"

"Is there any other Genevieve Threnhold?"

_He can't stand Ginny. He calls her an empty-headed ninny. Ginny the Ninny._

"Mama..." she turned to look at her mother, then bit her lip and looked into her lap. She asked the question without raising her eyes. "Were you happy, when you married Papa?"

The silence felt like a weight on her shoulders and Leandra dared a look up and into her mother's reflection.

"I was sixteen," said Bethann. "I thought my life was ending. I half-convinced myself I _wanted_ it to end."

Leandra thought of her parents laughing over their afternoon tea, and the way her father placed his hand at her back when they walked.

"We were all making marriages, my friends and I, but I had made the best." She resumed her brushes with the silver comb. "I wanted none of it. Your father was thirty, and to me, thirty might as well have been sixty. And he was short, and carried that pipe everywhere, and preferred his books to the swordplay that all the young men occupied their time with."

"But you married him," Leandra said.

"I did. And I had you."

"And Gamlen," she added.

Bethann sighed. "Yes. And Gamlen."

"Do you love him?"

"Oh, my darling, just because I _scold_ him doesn't mean—"

"No," Leandra interrupted and swallowed. "I mean..."

"Do I love your father? Of course I do." She tucked a strand of hair behind Leandra's ear. "And you will love Guillaume. And you will love the children you give him. And _perhaps_ one of them will be a little golden-haired girl you can name after me... Bethany, perhaps?" she suggested and smiled.

Leandra tried to smile and looked into her lap again.

"Darling," Bethann said, her voice a caress, and bent to kiss her cheek. "I know, I think, a little of your doubts. But you needn't have them. Guillaume has a kind heart. I would never wed you to a tyrant or a lecher or _anyone_ who would mistreat you. And your father would never allow it. Your _brother_ would never allow it. Is it the bedding that frightens you? Do you—"

"No, Mama," Leandra was quick to interrupt.

"There's nothing half so frighteningly inaccurate as the gossip of young virgins," Bethann insisted. "And I can only imagine what Phyllis Lafaille's sister has told her, married as she is to that insufferable man... how he has the money to support his house I don't know, as much as he spends on those blooming roses."

Leandra frowned.

"But that's nothing for your ears," Bethann said and set the comb down. "I want you to get your rest. We'll all be very busy soon enough."

"Yes, Mama."

Her mother kissed her a final time and left, her footsteps no more than a whisper in her satin slippers. Leandra kept the smile on her face even after the door clicked shut and her eyes began to burn.

_I will love Guillaume. I will love his children. I will have a little golden-haired daughter named Bethany, and I will love her most._

She smiled at her reflection and repeated the words, over and over, praying they would salve her burning heart.


End file.
